


Undertow

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dark, Dominance, Dystopia, Ficlet, Hand Jobs, M/M, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-30
Updated: 2016-03-30
Packaged: 2018-05-30 05:19:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6410416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And if Melkor won and continued to whisper darkness into the ears of Men, Boromir might listen where Aragorn would not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Undertow

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Ficlet for this week’s [silmread on tumblr](http://silmread.tumblr.com/), Of Men, wherein Melkor whispers bad things to men. (Obviously, Boromir and Aragorn weren’t born then, but it’s just so much more fun with them.)
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Lord of the Rings or The Silmarillion any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The crown he takes off in his quarters is no longer the grand one of old—it’s too valuable a thing to let others know its location, and he would deny his more pitiful followers the sight. Melkor makes a show of stripping away his daily trappings: armour, cloak, and jewels, even devoid of any servants, but none of the noise draws Aragorn’s attention.

Aragorn remains at his place by the large window, towering high above the dark courtyard below, his head also bare of the lesser crown Melkor sometimes permits him to wear. Unlike his master, he’s never quite had the same taste for power. 

Melkor doesn’t often care what his underlings prefer. It’s his own hunger he means to satiate as he sweeps across the floor. It still frustrates him, sometimes, to move in this form, grounded, _slow_ , but he’s yet to unravel the complex enchantments of his ancient enemies, and this form is the only one he has. The only good side to it is his compatibility with his toys. He flattens into Aragorn, his stronger chest pushing Aragorn’s back forward, and his thicker arms wrap over Aragorn’s, blackened hands encasing Aragorn’s along the stone windowsill. Aragorn’s face tilts to Melkor but quickly turns away again. The acknowledgement’s enough to flare Melkor’s interest, and he opens his mouth next to Aragorn’s ear, running sharpened teeth along the sensitive shell. Aragorn, predictably, has a hitch of breath. 

Mortal Men are frail, ephemeral things, but Melkor still enjoys certain models, and he prefers his followers to be truly _lesser_ —there is no question of his might, his place above them. Where the other Valar scorned him and the Elves resist him, Men are easy to whisper to, and Melkor takes that to his advantage. 

He intends to hiss an account of today’s great deeds into Aragorn’s ear, to remind Aragorn how _lucky_ he is to be so high among the ranks, to personally feel his master’s touch. But following Aragorn’s gaze stops Melkor’s tongue, and it freezes him cold.

The orcs have new elves to play with. Their hunting party caught seven, but one among them is worth more than the rest—the golden-haired son of the woodland elf that calls himself ‘king.’ There is only one king of Middle Earth, and Melkor doesn’t tolerate rebellion. This elf is a valuable catch, so while the orcs below play with him, none dare to truly _harm_ him—if this elf is to be sent to Mandos, Melkor will be the one to do it himself, after sending the woodland elves a message and making a true spectacle of it. None of the sounds below can make it up the tower through the wind, but the tension in Aragorn’s body says that he’s analyzing what he can. 

He always has been too _soft_. Strong, and talented, but there are parts of him that don’t seem to grasp all of Melkor’s doctrine, and Melkor wants to _throw him from the tower_ for that, but he’s just too beautiful to waste. Melkor keeps his voice deceptively calm and reaches to trace a few strands of Aragorn’s dark hair back behind his ear. When Melkor brushes his lips over Aragorn’s cheek, Aragorn tilts obediently for easier access but still looks away. Along his skin, Melkor purrs, “Do not look at him too long, my Elessar. Elves are full of trickery, those of his kind the most cunning in their lies.”

Aragorn snorts and pulls away, slipping to the side and free of Melkor’s grasp. The pleasant air is instantly gone. 

Melkor grabs Aragorn’s wrist before he can get far. He stops, glancing down at Melkor’s tight grip and then to Melkor’s eyes. He’s one of the few in Melkor’s keep brave enough to do so. 

“I have given you much, Aragorn. I both allow you to rule beneath me and the freedom to travel when you do not want to carry a crown. But you must not forget whose side you are on.”

Aragorn, to Melkor’s annoyance, says nothing. He defiantly maintains his gaze, until Melkor releases his wrist and he’s free to move. He disappears into their adjacent washroom, Melkor’s quarters lesser for his absence. 

The pleasure of watching today’s hunting party return with a successful capture has left Melkor’s mind. In its wake is a flare of unadulterated _anger_ —he often wonders why he bothers with these petty creatures. At the very least, _freedom_ is more than they deserve. He should never have allowed his mutt of a prince to leave their halls; foreign exposure has only made him more difficult to control. Not for the first time, Melkor wonders if he should just end it now. 

But, he reminds himself, he has other toys to play with, and for all of Aragorn’s implied disobedience, he’s a good fuck when he’s impassioned. Perhaps watching the Elven ‘prince’ go through the rounds below will make him more feisty when Melkor returns. It was a long time ago that Melkor first encouraged the lesser races to devise their weapons, and to this day, Aragorn is one of the few that can wield Melkor’s thought-creations with any art. He has unique value, however small. At least for one more night, Melkor thinks he’ll allow Aragorn’s line to continue.

But he still wants his release, and wants it _now_ , so he leaves Aragorn to brood and marches back to the hall. 

The Steward is a simple redundancy—while Melkor allows Aragorn to traipse about the countryside, Melkor needs someone to oversee the Men, someone they’ll inherently listen to, someone less valuable than Mairon or Melkor himself. The other side to it is that Denethor is far more easily controlled than Aragorn, though he thinks himself too clever for it. His sons also prove enough enjoyment to justify keeping them so close at hand. Faramir is a little too breakable for Melkor’s tastes and has been relegated closer to Mairon’s keep; Mairon always seems to delight in playing with Melkor’s discards. Boromir, on the other hand, has quarters right next to the ones Melkor keeps Aragorn in. When Melkor enters them, he doesn’t expect to see Boromir showing the slightest interest in the elves below, and he isn’t disappointed. 

Boromir sits at a writing desk with a scroll unwound, likely compiling a report on the day’s hunt for eyes more trivial than Melkor’s. He looks up when his master enters, his eyes alight with the same darkness as his father’s. Melkor flashes him a thin smile. 

Boromir moves to rise, but Melkor’s crossed the threshold faster and yanks Boromir to his feet by his hair. One hand fisted there, Melkor smashes Boromir’s lips against his, enjoying the pained noise Boromir makes against him. Yet when the shock passes, Boromir shivers and opens his mouth, allowing Melkor’s tongue inside. When Melkor kisses him, he kisses back. He tastes like raw meat and smells like raw _Man_ , his body thick and sturdy in Melkor’s hands—he has no far-off Elven blood like Aragorn. He’s _Melkor’s_ through and through, and as much as he likes Melkor’s other playthings, he’d probably run his sword through Aragorn’s back if ordered to. 

Soldiers are often better company than princes. When Melkor pushes Boromir away, Boromir stumbles but stays where he’s put, stifling a disgruntled growl. Gesturing towards the window, Melkor asks, “Do I have your hunting party to thank for my latest gift?”

“Yes,” Boromir answers instantly, and Melkor knows he wouldn’t says so just to steal credit that wasn’t earned—he thinks himself too _honourable_ for that. “I lead the assault.”

“And you did not listen to the lies of your captive, did you?”

Boromir’s eyes steel over, and he sounds almost offended as he boasts, “Of course not. I know they are tainted. You are the only true Valar; I would not listen to a fool who followed any other.” He means it, too. He radiates loyalty to his master, and though he wears only trousers and a gold-embroidered brown tunic for his quarters, he stands like a man in armour, waiting taut at attention. 

Those are the only creatures Melkor has genuine use for. He graces Boromir with another smile and steps forward to grab Boromir again. This time, he herds Boromir towards the window, identical to the one Aragorn stood in. Melkor turns him to face through it and arranges him along it, flattening just as tightly against his back and wrapping hungry arms just as thickly around him. When Boromir stands just as Melkor would like, Melkor hooks his chin over Boromir’s broad shoulder and nudges Boromir’s head to face the same way. Eyeing the courtyard below, where the Elven ‘prince’ is now chained in place and forced to watch the slow demise of his six companions, Melkor asks, “And those elves you brought me... do you think them pretty?”

Boromir seems to hesitate, but only in confusion, then answers simply, “No.”

Melkor clucks his tongue. His hands slither away from Boromir’s, and Boromir obediently leaves his in place along the sill. Melkor draws back along Boromir’s arms, then across his shoulders, over his chest, and through the tunic, Melkor presses in, feeling the hard muscles of his prized stallion. At the hem of Boromir’s trousers, Melkor dips below the tunic’s overhang and slides his fingers between skin and fabric, drawing down through the mat of coarse hairs that lines Boromir’s crotch. Boromir sucks in a breath but says nothing. As Melkor runs his hand down the long line of Boromir’s trapped shaft, teeth sliding along the side of Boromir’s ear, he coos, “Not even a little bit?”

Boromir’s breath catches when he tries to answer, probably because of the way that Melkor squeezes his cock. Wrapping tightly around its impressive girth, Melkor plucks loose the string of Boromir’s trousers with his free hand and gives Boromir a hard pump with the other, drawing it out into the open air for more room to play. And for the view. When Melkor looks down Boromir’s chest, he can see the darkened hue of Boromir’s warm flesh, already stiffening and pulsing with interest. Melkor gives it another squeeze, then strokes it up, down, and twists as he goes. Boromir chokes, “I... I am not interested in any elves.” Melkor rewards him for that with a faster pace. 

Melkor purrs, “Good boy,” in Boromir’s ear, and delights in the way it makes Boromir release a wanton moan. He’s one of Melkor’s greatest warriors, and he still bows so easily to his better. He trembles with his desire. He doesn’t buck into Melkor’s hand—he’s been trained not to—but his hips seem to shiver for it, his knuckles turning white against the stone as he fights to be still and let his master play with his body. He doesn’t have Aragorn’s _beauty_ , but he’s _handsome_ , and his submission gives Melkor tremendous pleasure. He may be a mere Man, but he’s a leader amongst them, and he and all his followers belong to _Melkor_.

He watches the torture below, eyes perhaps a tad unseeing, fogged over with _lust_ , while Melkor strokes his cock again and again. Perhaps the next time an elf tries to seduce him, as they surely must, a fine specimen like this, he’ll remember how much _better_ Melkor can make him feel. And this is only a small consolation. When Melkor takes what he wanted from Aragorn out of Boromir—despoiling before the elves’ degradation—he might just take Boromir back to his bed, throw him down and fuck him as hard as Aragorn could’ve had. And Aragorn will eventually emerge and be forced to watch as another, better behaved soldier takes his place. 

Or perhaps Melkor will have Aragorn join, and he’ll play with both his princes at once. It’s well within his grasp. He began the corruption of Men so very long ago, but they still fit neatly under his thumb.

He pumps Boromir’s cock until he grows bored of the subtle play, and then he hisses, “Come.” Boromir, ever dutiful, does as he’s commanded. He bursts with a loud cry and spills himself over Melkor’s hand, splattering the wall. Melkor strokes him right through it, even as Boromir slumps back against him, grown heavy and hotter, handsome features dazed. Melkor holds him while he pants.

While Boromir is limp and pliant, Melkor noses at his ear and whispers, “It is a sin, you know, for anything but a god to be immortal. It is a sin for them to live in years that you will not, and for them to speak of the old, of the blasphemous lands the usurpers took from me. The light they lust after is that of _my_ treasures. They are a vile race, and we will destroy them for it.”

Boromir nods weakly. Though Melkor already knows it true, he asks slickly, “And you will help me do so, yes?”

Boromir breathes, “Of course,” so sincerely that it’s almost laughable. 

Somehow, Melkor restrains his chuckle. He keeps hold of Boromir, holding him up, and strokes lazily across his attractive body and licks a sizzling burn onto his neck—despite this mock-mortal form, Melkor’s _fire_ still often seeps through. There’s a flicker of enjoyment at the knowledge that Mairon will be jealous when he sees it—few others are allowed to wear Melkor’s mark of true _possession_. Boromir moans at the searing touch but doesn’t once complain. 

When Melkor does step back and push Boromir towards the bed, Boromir stumbles for it, fighter’s grace forgotten while his trousers fall loosely down his thighs. As soon as he hits the mattress, he turns to present himself for his master’s taking. 

Melkor sweeps forward, ready to claim yet another prize.


End file.
